No wonder he checked himself into a clinic that specializes in helping men rediscover themselves, and the fire that used to burn white hot.

It obviously worked. And while his marriage didn’t survive the ordeal, he did.

Aging is a state of mind that starts innocently enough – a little reality check here and there – but it rapidly escalates into a malignant mindset that kills the spirit that once stole smiles, and filled hearts with love, joy…and hope.

WHY WOULD ANYONE WILLINGLY LET THIS GO?

No one should ever allow anyone convince you that you’re too old to do this or that, be this or that.

If you can pull it off, you just raised the bar another notch.

Now they can kiss your ass.

It doesn’t matter that you don’t have the pitching arm you had back in the day.

Buy a skateboard.

Nobody lays claim to what older men can and cannot do, physical disabilities [i.e., old injuries] notwithstanding.

But there are always workarounds.

Physicians are always warning older men to be careful in the gym; to act “responsibly, in deference to their age.”

But those same physicians are at death’s door decades before their time.

Grumpy Old Man Syndrome is not listed in the DSM-V [Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders], but it should be given its level of predictability.

As cited in the Huffington Post article [above], the disorder appears to present in men once they hit the age of 70, and then rapidly escalates until they die – or are poisoned by their wives, I assume.

The article states that “A 70-year-old man is a shadow of his former self – both physically and mentally. He then becomes invisible to those younger than him. He lacks a sense of purpose. He loses his firmness and assertiveness, and shrinks in stature and personality.”

Yea, no shit.

Needless to say, I’m writing about this because we Baby Boomers are next in line.

Just to clear the air of any misconceptions, though, I hereby state unequivocally that “I, Jay Rusovich, will not go down the road of indignity.”

Too bad the same is isn’t true of most guys my age.

In some cases I get that their deterioration is tied to debilitating financial problems.

…i.e., “How the hell do I get back what I lost in 2008?”

But for everyone else, it’s resignation tied to depression.

Their “bad backs” are no excuse for transforming otherwise ambitious and confident men into creeping unics.

I hear about all their aches and pains as the pity party rages, but I know that deep down they realize it only hastens the downhill tumble.

Everything at this stage of the game is in the throes of attrition.

Everything needs to be propped up.

And the moment you take your eyes off the ball, rest assured it’s already down the rabbit hole.

No, you can no longer bounce out of bed like a Cirque performer and then dive into the world on a cup of coffee and a dream.

But you can stretch, have a healthy breakfast, brush your teeth, take a shower, comb whatever hair you have, and walk out of the house knowing that at some point during the course of the day you will hit the gym hard.

After all this time, the gym is the one place I can’t avoid if I want to keep my own life propped up, finances notwithstanding.

And no, it’ not a cakewalk.

No wonder there are legions of walking wounded waiting to die at the hands of lions.

Of course younger people dismiss them outright, stealing fuel from their already dying souls.

I’d rather die myself than live in their condition.

SUMMARY

Irrelevance is the aging man’s crucible.

Using the metaphor for what it is, if you don’t carry the cross to the very end, you’ll die at the foot of the mountain with the rest of the herd.

No one will ever beat me down without a fight. I will go to the wall for myself because there is no one else to lean on at the beginning and end of every day.

The moment I can stand tall I will stand down, at which point you should know that I like long-stem white roses…

As every writer knows, the reviewing process can be a grueling exercise in humility. Some people like what you have to say, others not so much. A lot of it depends on a person’s mood that day, or projection stemming from conflict, or just plain jealousy that you published a book and they didn’t. I know. it’s pathetic. But it happens all the time.

With this as a backdrop, I thought that i would share a recent review that meant a lot to me. The reader obviously understood the message and offered a thoughtful response, which is always appreciated.

Here it is in its entirety:

“Who wrote this book? Is he kidding? Is he serious? Is he the angriest man in the urban mid-life dating world? Or is he part of a silent majority, the rest of whom lack either the courage or literary skill (or both) to expose the innermost secrets of many middle-aged men in the world of high income big city dating?

Treat it as parody, or treat it as reality, or some of both – either way, it is a great read!

A book for men who want to confirm what they already suspect or know.

A book for women who want to understand what many men are thinking – either the men they want to avoid, the men they want to attract, or the men they are already seeing.

Meet the new, urban, single, wealthy, successful middle-aged man. He’s post-angry. He’s entitled. He’s demanding. And that is only half the story. Meet the new urban single middle-aged woman. She’s unrealistic. Utterly oblivious. Living in a dream world of self-created fantasy.

Meet Urban Dystrophy.

Where men are middle-aged at 56.

But women are middle-aged at 36.

In the world of the big city, middle aged dating is a battlefield filled with dysfunction, borderline personality disorder, hidden agenda, and narcissism. For people who find themselves single in mid life (bad), or who never married (worse), finding a mate who isn’t carrying more baggage than a UPS truck or who is who they say they are or who considers honest self representation a virtue is more unlikely than winning a multi-state lottery.

Middle age may be the new 30, but dating in middle age is the new torture. Built on mass media created thrones of high expectation, the middle aged mans dating experience is all about his desire to have the kinds of girls that he either did have or couldn’t have when he was 25. But now that he is affluent and 50, he deserves – is entitled to – those girls. Why would they want a 25-year-old guy, when he has everything to offer them? After all, we KNOW that women fall in love with their ears, not their eyes, don’t we?

For many women, this will be a primer on the kind of man to avoid. Unfortunately, the book points out that most of the men they believe they want fall right into this category.

For many men in the middle-aged dating scene, this will be a full-on reinforcement and vindication of their dating experiences and choices.

Anthropological intrigue.

In the land of Urban Dystrophy, young women in their late 20’s who are offended when men in their mid-fifties or older hit on them are offended not because they think the man is pathetic, but because the man is insulting them – how DARE he think they cannot attract an uber successful man in his early 30’s? The middle-aged man becomes the ultimate insult. For the middle-aged man who is rejected by the woman in her late 20’s or early 30’s, she’s just an idiot. No offense taken. He’ll find another.

Who is going to wait on the sidelines until she either dates down, waaaay down, the economic ladder (as men have done forever), or dates up, waaaay up, the age range (as men have done forever – after all, the 69 year old man happy to be dating her will be dating waaaay down the age range – middle aged women.

You may think that this is written from the perspective of a person who has money and financial success at the core of his soul. And maybe you think that if you have, for example, God there instead, you will have a different outcome. And you will. You won’t live in the middle of the big city, divorced or never married, hanging out in health clubs or wine bars or charity events to find love. You will be in church. That said, in the world of Urban Dystrophy, they are both a kind of self-delusion. The delusion being, that we are worthy just as we are. Self-love is delusional love, without God, or Money, or Beauty. Because, in the big city, all the self love in the world won’t get you laid – not without the other stuff, anyway.” M.F., Las Vegas, NV.

Wednesday Martin, author of Primates of Park Avenue, she found herself, she says, “going native.” She wanted to belong among the Upper East Side mommies who hired stylists and makeup artists for school drop-off and pickup, who got preventive Botox every three months, who perfected the flawless facade.

~ ~ ~

In many ways, this is the female version of my new book, Urban Dystrophy, now available on #Amazon.

Again, money is the buy-in, followed by a tightly-scripted narrative to which all aspirants must adhere – to the letter.

Think of it as high school all over again, but without the food fights.

Men know all about this.

In exchange for a residence at “900 Park Avenue,” women stand at the Devil’s Crossroads and relinquish their souls for a table at the right restaurant where people eat each other.

The ones who survive have the most checks on the list of must-haves.

Age comes to mind.

To wit, the author refuses to reveal her age.

All we know is “I’m in my 40’s.”

The reason for this is academic:

Not only are women expected to perform well under the scrutiny of white hot halogen, but because youth and beauty are expected to be indelible commodities, the farther away one drifts, the more perilous the journey.

No wonder Botox runs like rivers on the Upper East Side.

Mothers then pass these values on to their children, who attend the right schools, go on the right play dates, have the right tutors, and generally, explore all that “intensive mothering” can – and damn well better – provide.

People say celebrities are so different from everyone else, but when it gets down to it, money is what splits the herd.

Darwin should have spent more time studying human behavior. It would have made the animal kingdom appear more evolved.

~ ~ ~

Now, what I’m about to say is done so out of the kindness of my heart, notwithstanding the fact that human nature is suspect under most circumstances.

Some of us have enough soul to communicate without ulterior motive, unless you consider lambasting a motive.

Let’s just say that people “acquire” what they can as long as they can get away with it.

“I’m an 18-year-old college coed with a beautiful face and flawless physique. I know that my popularity is tied to these features. And while I may struggle with the fact that physical beauty opens doors before anyone knows my first name, I tend to get over it. For a while, anyway. As I enter my mid-20’s, I notice changes, feel the pressure of expectations that force my hand to make decisions that challenge my ability to simply exist. Now I must do. But I’m addicted to the attention without having to lift a finger, and people now expect me to do something more than present well. Oh shit. Okay, let’s see. I have a degree in Business Administration, so I guess I better start sending out job applications. Seriously? I’m sending out job applications? For what? So I can prove to the world that there is more to me than a pretty face and a perfect ass? Well guess what? It’s changing! I’m changing. My face is not as young as it was as a teenager, and now I have to workout all the friggin’ time to maintain my object status, which I don’t want to forsake for 60 hour workweeks. Oh dear god, what’s happening to me? I need to get married before I miss this opportunity! But I can’t just do that because then I’m just like every other pretty girl who did nothing with her life, but become someone’s wife and a mother to our children. Of course, the neighborhoods and vacations are nice. But I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. So I work and date and go to the gym to try to keep it all propped up until I start experiencing radical weight loss, depression and social withdrawal. So I go to therapy, where I discover that women are, in fact, objects, and that I have this one life, this one shot at making it before the flame is gone forever. So I capitulate, marrying a wealthy guy who knows my family. We buy a beautiful hone in a beautiful neighborhood and have two beautiful children. Now I’m 35, divorced with two kids and back on the dating market. I should have stuck with the 60 hour work week…”

More “enlightened” young women at my health club [i.e., less conflicted] embrace their object status and exploit it without mercy.

They come to the gym fully loaded, ready for adventure and excitement under the pretense of training.

Oh, the train. They absolutely train, primarily their butt muscles, which carry enough firepower to land a nest-egg the size of a Volkswagen.

They all know the score. All of us do, both men and women.

It’s why no one falls on the floor when they stretch and grind, particularly women who [on some level] respect their tenacity and focus.

One day, those same women will invite them into their lavish homes, and perhaps, introduce them to men far wealthier than their current husbands.

But as we all know, this is normal, well-adjusted behavior in a world where everything is for sale to the highest bidder.

Young men play a similar game. While they are often heard complaining about all the older men hoarding women their age, they certainly understand the power of money, which cuts through everything like a hot butter knife.

“I’m a 25-year-old guy with a great body and wealthy dad. One day I will inherit his business and the world will be mine. Actually, it already is mine, given the number of women I run through on a weekly basis. I know they appreciate good looks, and it’s always nice to find someone their own age. But what they really want is money. They call it security, but I know what they mean. They don’t want no matter what they tell me because sacrificing looks for business opportunity just isn’t worth jeopardizing the nice house and the country club membership. As for me, I’m just along for the ride. I date them and then forget their names. Marriage, or whatever, isn’t in the cards for me until I’m at least 40, at which point I’ll find the hottest 22-year-old on the planet.”

In both instances, young men and women of this world – of my world – are pragmatic on every level. They know how life works and they leverage everything they have to achieve success as they see it.

At this writing, designer syringe cases for testosterone users do not exist.

Yea, I’m shocked too given the availability and use of the drug among affluent older men, particularly the ones who don’t need it, but still can’t live without it.

Nonetheless, Baby Boomers like myself have become targets of a nationwide advertising campaign to dope us into submission.

In a way, it’s like the old Wheaties ads, but more expensive.

Get up in the morning, eat a healthy breakfast, shoot up, get on with your day! It all sounds so innocent, almost healthy.

No wonder I am literally surrounded by men my age who “supplement,” as it’s commonly referred.

Most of them use synthetic testosterone in conjunction with Human Growth hormone [HGH], while others “stack” other variants to the mix in order to maximize performance and build lean mass.

This is considered normal by many, and counting.

The objective is to bring testosterone and HGH mainstream so that no one will think twice about grabbing prescriptions every time they buy toothpaste.

It must be working because I’d hard-pressed to point out more than a handful of a single older men who workout like I do who DON’T SUPPLEMENT.

They know the risks, they can read.

“Swollen and painful breasts, blood clots in the legs, increased risk for prostate cancer, problems breathing during sleep (sleep apnea), change in the size and shape of the testicles, and a low sperm count.”

But their physicians, the antagonists in this drama, downplay the side-effects in order to keep prescriptions filled.

“Oh, just come in for a blood test every three months to check your liver and PSA levels and you’ll be fine. Who doesn’t want more energy, a better sex drive, and more lean mass?”

So a year later THEY stroke out and the doctor attributes it to over-training.

All testosterone products contain a warning label about the potential for blood clots, but nobody pays any more attention to it than they do warning labels on Bayer aspirin.

So now your doctor is off the hook and your legal war is with the drug cartels and insurance giants who can buy and sell you thousands of times, bleeding you so white with attorney’s fees you throw your hands up and surrender.

The only people who can win this war are the ones keeping it going: Users.

Stop using and they go away.

Otherwise, expect the process of demand and supply to run on all cylinders.

According to an article published in Scientific American, nearly 3 percent of American men aged 40 and older are thought to have received testosterone scripts in 2011 — three times the percentage in 2001. (If confirmed, the 2011 ratio could mean that perhaps two million older men in the U.S. have been given prescriptions for testosterone.)

As an older man who is literally inundated with chatter about “Low T,” I can attest to its allure.

More energy on less sleep, and a body from hell at age 60.

I dunno, it kinda sells itself.

One reader responded to this article with a familiar refrain:

“The problem is that the criteria doesn’t know what my testosterone levels should be for my age. The average testosterone levels are established for men between the ages of 18 and 80. I am not 18 nor 80 but one specific age. But the data show nothing about these numbers.”

As everyone in this game knows, the key to deciding whether or not to start a testosterone regimen comes down to the numbers.

In other words, what should my numbers be for someone my age?

This, my friends, is at the very crux of the controversy.

If the prescribing physician raises the baseline for what we’re told the Tes levels of a 60-year-old man should be, then we damn well need more testosterone.

This well written Atlantic Magazine article below covers this controversy in more detail:

I have to sleep 8 hours a night, cycle my workouts for maximum recovery, spend no more than 1 hour a day at the gym [rather than 6], and eat pretty much perfectly – no trash foods ever.

This is the price I pay for being my age.

My testosterone levels are well within the normal range, not the range of a 19-year-old.

I have to make peace with that.

I can only do what my body allows at this age and under optimum lifestyle choices.

The rest is up to nature.

If I choose to visit one of the well-known physicians here in Houston who write millions in testosterone and HGH prescriptions every year, I am sure to walk out with a full bag of goodies to remedy my “flagging health.”

Note: I currently hold the Texas State record for the RAW deadlift, within my weight and age division, through he USAPL, which strictly forbids the use of steroids.

POSTSCRIPT

There are a few men who have what is referred to as hypogonadism where the body doesn’t produce enough testosterone.

The condition is rare, but it does occur, and in such case testosterone supplementation becomes necessary in order for a man to live a full, healthy life.

I also know bodybuilders who simply cannot achieve the mass necessary to win contests without dramatically increasing testosterone levels.

It’s just part of that sport, but also a source of unbelievable acrimony from users in denial about the risks.

If you don’t believe me, go on any bodybuilding site and mention health risks associated with testosterone supplementation and you’ll end up closing your account until the vitriol calms down.

In the end, no junkie in his right mind wants to be told that crack cocaine is bad for his health anymore than an exercise addict wants to hear about the downsides of anorexia.